


Game of Swords

by heeroluva



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Manhandling, Marathon Sex, Strength, Trust, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: A day of training turns into something more.





	Game of Swords

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fayharley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayharley/gifts).



Readjusting her grip on her practice sword, Ciri circles to the left, looking for a break in Geralt’s defenses. They’ve been at it since dawn, and now the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky with stunning oranges and purples and pinks. Skin sticky with sweat, her hair is plastered to her face and neck, her bun having long since come undone, but she has no time to fix it.

Breathing heavily, Ciri’s entire body aches like one big bruise, her muscles burn, and she can feel tiny tremors starting to race through her limbs. 

The tip of her sword drops, and sharp eyed as ever, Geralt doesn’t miss it. “Your stamina is still shit.”

“Well excuse me for not having witcher mutations,” Ciri huffs as her eyes rake over Geralt’s topless form, having long since stripped out of his shirt. Ciri hadn’t been certain if it had been a distraction tactic, but it had certainly worked for a moment at least, and judging by the smirk he’d given her when she’d stumbled, he’d known it. Truly it wasn’t just his stunning physique that drew her attention, but his stunning collection of scars, each a testimony to his skills, each a story that she’d eagerly listened to since childhood.

“Witchers are as much a product of our training as we are the trials we go through. A witch must hone—”

“—‘every weapon at their disposal.’” Ciri parrots back before blinking, appearing behind Geralt.

Geralt turns but not fast enough, and Ciri takes advantage of his momentum, tripping him. As he sprawls his foot snags hers and they both grunt as she lands on top of him.

“Got you, old man,” Ciri says with a grin, her sword resting against his neck. “I win.”

“Do you?”

Ciri hisses as the tip of the blunted practice sword digs into a particular sore spot on her side.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Ciri pushes herself up, but Geralt’s fingers close around her hips, stopping her movement, and she looks at him quizzically.

Ciri’s breath catches for an entirely new reason when she sees the naked lust in Geralt’s gaze. It’s far from the first time she’d seen such a look on a man’s face and certainly not the first time she’s seen that look on Geralt’s face, but it’s the first time she’s seen it directed towards _her_.

For all intents and purposes, Geralt had raised Ciri as his daughter, had been more of a father to her than Emhyr had ever been. Despite that Geralt had been the star of many of Ciri’s guilty teenage fantasies. Ciri would have to be blind to not appreciate what a fine specimen of manhood that Geralt is.

But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that Geralt would see her as a desirable woman.

The seconds tick by and neither of them move. Ciri swallows thickly, watching the way that Geralt’s eyes drop to her lips, her own mirroring his. His fingers flex at her sides, and she squirms, freezing when she feelings the thick column of him brush against her butt.

“Ciri, we—”

Geralt breaks off when Ciri cups his bearded cheek, her thumb resting against his parted lips. When his thumb darts out to taste the digit Ciri gasps softly. Leaning forward, she flattens her covered breasts against his bare chest, and holding his gaze, presses her mouth against his in a hesitant kiss.

Ciri can feel the groan that vibrates from Geralt’s chest into her, and her nipples tighten. When his hands move from her hips to her butt, gripping the taunt mounds he finds, pushing their groins together, Ciri moans as well and takes the invitation to deepen the kiss.

The taste and smells of Geralt surround her as their tongues meet and slide against each other. Her hands wander in her need to feel all of him, marveling at the prickliness of the short hair on the sides of his head, and when she undoes his hair tie, she weaves her fingers through the silkiness of the longer hair that falls loose.

Geralt suddenly rolls them, holding himself up with his arms on the ground on either side of her head, his knees slotted between her spread thighs, holding himself up above her. He pauses there both of them breathing heavily, and Ciri can see the war playing out behind his eyes.

Hands rising to Geralt’s chest, Ciri traces her fingers over his many scars, drawing a shiver from him. She’ll show him that there is nothing wrong in this. Hands falling lower, she cups the bulge she finds between his legs. Geralt’s eyes fall shut when she tugs at the straining laces of leather trousers, and he groans when his cock is freed, falling hot and heavy into Ciri’s eager hands. Her cunt clenches, gushes wetness as she images being filled with his impressive length.

Still Geralt holds himself stiffly above her, his eyes squeezed shut.

One hand slowly stroking Geralt’s cock, she uses the other to undo her top and open her bra. “Geralt.” When he doesn’t open his eyes, she hooks her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and pulling herself up off the ground, presses their bodies together.

Feeling her bare breasts against his chest, Geralt’s eyes pop open. “Ciri.”

The word’s a prayer, and Ciri’s never felt more powerful.

With nary a struggle, Geralt rises to his feet, wrapping his arms around Ciri to ensure she wouldn’t fall. It’s that instinctive need to protect that does her in. 

Ciri presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, and he nearly stumbles. They’re moving, but Ciri doesn’t care where. When she rolls her hips, seeking friction, wishing that there was nothing between them, Geralt really does stumble.

Crashing into unexpected cold water, Ciri gasps and chokes, flailing as her head sinks beneath the surface.

When she rises from the lake sputtering, any angry words she might have had fade as her eyes follow the flow of water streaming down Geralt’s body, his cock standing hard and proud, framed by the V of his now soaked pants.

Ciri wastes no time stripping out of her sopping clothing, enjoying the way that Geralt’s eyes feast on every inch of skin that’s revealed. When she stands naked before him, she puts her hands on her hips and raises her brow in question. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Shoving down his pants, Geralt steps out of them and throws them to the side before sinking to his knees in the shallows.

Closing the distance between them, Ciri shivers when his hands trace up her calves, up her thighs before squeezing her ass. Her hands fall to his head, struggling to keep her balance when he roughly pulls her thighs apart.

Ciri gasps and goes up on her toes when he buries his face in her cunt, feasting like a starving man, his beard scraping at her inner thighs. When Ciri’s hands fist in Geralt’s hair, intentionally tugging, Geralt groans, the vibrations spreading through her core. Ciri rocks against his face as he tongue fucks her. She’s certain she’s never been this wet before, certain she’s never gotten this close this fast before, already feeling the orgasm rising.

The scrape of teeth against her clit is all she needs to send her over the edge, thighs tightening before her muscles spasm, her legs giving out with the force of her orgasm. She barely notices the way that Geralt carefully guides her down to sit on her lap, but she certain notices the way that his cock sinks into her spasming cunt, pulling her down until he’s fully seated in her.

That’s enough to set Ciri off again, muscles clenching around Geralt’s length. Geralt moans and bucks, and Ciri starts to ride him, sliding up and down his thick cock. Through slitted eyes Ciri takes in Geralt’s face, glistening with wetness, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted into a grimace.

Pressing her lips against his, Ciri tastes herself and says, “Let go.”

Geralt’s hands, resting on her hips, tighten suddenly. “Ciri,” he groans, her name a prayer on his lips, and she finds herself easily maneuvered onto her hands and knees.

Geralt ruts against her like a man possessed, and Ciri loses track of how many times she comes, how many times he fills her.

From time to time, they doze in the reeds at the water’s edge, the heat that Geralt radiates keeping the chill of the night at bay, before one or the other starts the process all over again.

“You’re insatiable,” Geralt groans when after one such doze, Ciri sinks down onto his cock once more.

“Too much for you, old man?” Ciri teases, clenching down around his length, her snicker turning to a moan when he rolls her beneath him and pins her arms above her head.

“I’ll show you old,” Geralt snarks back.

The pace he sets is brutally slow, and no matter how much she begs for more, tries to break his control, it’s only when they’re both sweat-soaked and trembling with need that he finally snaps and fucks her hard, giving them both the release they so desire. 

Afterwards when the sun begins to peak above the horizon, Ciri’s resting on Geralt’s chest, fingers tracing over his scars as she listens to his steady heartbeat. Never had she been so thoroughly fucked. She’s going to be feeling this for days, first their training, then this, but she can’t bring herself to regret it.

Raising her head, Ciri’s shocked to find Geralt sleeping, truly sleeping, not the meditation he normally favors for rejuvenation. Never has she seen Geralt so relaxed, so vulnerable, and it twists something in her chest that he trusts her this much. Dropping her head again, she grabs his hand and knots their fingers together, pressing a kiss against his knuckles before giving in to the call of sleep herself.


End file.
